Thrash Maxim vs. The Other Dr. Phil

Thrash Maxim staggered out of the building, trying to clutch at his heart. His arms, perpetually kept six inches from his body by his bulky lateral muscles, hobbled by his chunky biceps and popeye forearms, couldn't bend quite enough to reach his chest, and so he flailed like a youthful author reaching for a metaphorical butterfly.

"I'm having a gawdamn heart attack," yelled Thrash, putting his back to the building and sliding, defeated, to the ground.

"You are not, you big baby," said the last person he wanted to hear from. "And if you were, it would serve you right." Thrash looked up at his wife, automatically noting her luxuriant red hair, her gorgeous figure, and of course the 38 DD rack that had ruined her Olympic swimming career.

"You!" Thrash screamed. "You did this to me!"

"Please, Thrash, you're making a scene," his wife sighed, but Thrash was still feebly pawing toward his pectoral muscles and sobbing loudly. A devilish light came into Mrs. Maxim's eyes. "Besides, a tantrum is the kind of thing a GAY man might do."

That remark hit home, Mrs. Maxim noted, as she helped Thrash get to his feet. She led her sobbing husband to the truck, and he climbed up the ladder into the cab, but he didn't want to drive. The ride home was quiet, as Thrash sulked on the passenger side of his monster truck. Therapy had been awful today. He relived the terrible exchange with the other Dr. Phil, not to be confused with the one on Oprah.

The other Dr. Phil had gotten right to the point.

"Thrash, I know the court ordered you to attend family counseling, but you can make this really work for you," the other Dr. Phil said kindly. "It will make you a better and happier person, as well as cutting down on the self-destructive episodes."

"What gawdamn episodes?!" Thrash thundered.

"Well, we're not here to gather up stones to throw at you, Thrash. We're here to help you. But if you aren't clear on what I mean by a ‘self-destructive episode,' I can define that in your terms."

"Gawdamnit," said Thrash defiantly. "Name one fuckin ‘episode,' you French surrender monkey."

"Now, now, Thrash, my family is from Belgium," said the other Dr. Phil benevolently. He consulted his notes. "But let's see . . . . Do you remember when you crashed your monster truck into a parked State patrol car because those lesbian hitchhikers were fighting over who would swallow the jizz from your fully engorged manhood?"

"Yeah."

"And do you recall when you sportfucked the babysitter and her mother and another lesbian hitchhiker on the night you promised your wife you would clean out those rain gutters?"

"Yeah."

"And these ongoing bouts of sister-fucking?"

"Hey, she came on to me, buddy."

"And the time you arranged for your wife to engage in a triple-cock blowout with an Asian porn star, a famous African American football player, and the Pakistani stock clerk from your office while you filmed it secretly from another room?"

"Yeah, that was cool."

"No, Thrash, it was not cool. It's a desperate plea for help. These things are all the result of your latent homosexuality."

For a moment after the other Dr. Phil had said that, Thrash felt the fabric of his world strain and begin to tear. His wife put a sympathetic hand on his massive forearm, and Thrash shook it off. Realizing a moment later that pushing a woman away might be construed as something a gay man might do, Thrash hastily grabbed his wife's hand and put it back on his forearm, right over his naked lady tattoo.

"Wait a gawdamn fucking minute, completely different from the guy on Oprah Dr. Phil," Thrash said rebelliously. "Wait a gawdamn minute." Thrash took a breath as the other Dr. Phil looked at him charitably. Thrash gathered his thoughts into a tidy tirade:

"I am SO not gay. I fuck the women with enormous boobs. I fuck the women with great asses and legs that go all the way up. Black ones, white ones. Young ones. Other young ones. I fuck all the tight, wet, firm, moist, secure, drenched, constricted, damp, narrow, soggy, snug, vagina there is to be fucked. Twin lesbian hitchhiking cheerleaders? Fucked ‘em. 38-24-32 bipolar slut on a manic high? Twice, and tagged teamed her another time with a friend before she got back on her meds!"

The other Dr. Phil listened, and in the silence Thrash grew desperate.

"And about the whole sister-fucking deal, since some people seem to have issues with that," Thrash said, looking sideways at his wife. "She came on to me. Even if I had started it, which I didn't, what could be more manly than fucking forbidden fruit?"

"Let me answer your last question first," the other Dr. Phil said magnanimously. "The incest taboo represents something else for you, Thrash. Your homosexual urges frighten you, but you can't change your nature. You invite other men to share your wife because that's a safe way for you to express your hidden feelings for them. Your predilection for bisexual woman is another demonstration of your subconscious working to bring these emotions into the open. For you, breaking the incest taboo is actually a manifestation of your desire to confront the other areas of your sexuality that you are denying to yourself. Give yourself permission to be happy, Thrash."

"What would make me happy is to climb up into my monster truck, drive home, get my fully converted twelve gauge double barrel automatic shotgun from the shed, undo the trigger lock, load it with the 260 rounds allowed under the Brady bill, get back into my monster truck, drive back here at a high rate of speed without listening to any soothing whale songs, and blow your gawdamn head off! How'd you like them apples?"

The other Dr. Phil shook his head, a hint of a smile playing around his mouth. "I would like to talk about that as well."

"What, killing you?"

"No, although graphic fantasies about killing another man are often just sublimated sexual urges. But I want to talk about your monster truck, and your preoccupation with firearms. That brings us to the second issue we must bring up in your therapy."

"What about my enormous monster truck makes me gay?" demanded Thrash. "And I know you're going to say something about it being pink, but that's bullshit. It ain't pink, it's actually just an adorable shade of blush. And nothing about a big, powerful gun is gay!"

"Your truck and your guns are symbolic of another issue you've got to face, Thrash. They are phallic symbols. To you, owning these powerful things compensates mentally for the shortcomings of your own penis."

"Hey, now you're saying my dick is small?" Thrash howled.

"No. I'm saying that you must think it is small if you feel the need to adopt compensative behaviors."

Thrash stood up. "I'll show you doc, my dick is exactly 11 inches long and six inches in circumference."

"I find it interesting that you want to show me your penis."

"Now wait a minute, other Dr. Phil, I'm just trying to prove to you that it ain't small."

"Sure you are, Thrash. Don't worry about it. Feelings for the therapist are often a by- product of successful therapy."

Thrash stopped in mid-zippering, unsure of whether to proceed with the offer of proof. "But I'm exactly 11 inches long and six in circumference," he whispered, a droplet forming and running down right beside his muscular tear duct.

The other Dr. Phil leaned forward. "It doesn't matter to me, Thrash. It only matters to you. No matter how big or small it is, you will always feel inadequate about it."

"I will?" asked Thrash, sinking back into his chair.

"Yes, until you accept your feelings. Can't you see, Thrash? You are a homosexual. Deep down inside, you know this."

"I do?"

"Yes, you do. And you think that being gay makes you less of a man, and that feeling of inadequacy is intolerable to your ego. You compensate for these sensitivities by buying the biggest truck, the biggest guns, and having the most sexual conquests. That's common. But you push it further. All these hitchhikers. All these babysitters that have just turned 18. And the constant sister fucking. You strive to obtain those who should be the least obtainable women because it makes you feel that these conquests are worth something more than the ones before. And I'm going to tell you something very important, Thrash. Are you listening?"

"No! No, Thrash! You missed my point. The monster isn't being gay, it's the way you deal with being gay that is hurting you. The fact is, until you deal with the unresolved homosexual urges, you'll always feel like your cock is too small. You'll always be buying a bigger gun. You'll get a truck that requires an even taller ladder to get into. You'll always share your wife in threesomes with men like that Sherpa guide, blaming it on her general sluttiness and cockfever rather than admitting own your curiosity about his exotic good looks and stocky, muscular frame. You've got to confront the root causes of this. I'm going to give you a copy of my latest book, and I want you to read it cover to cover before our next session, Thrash."

Thrash, riding in silence beside his wife with a copy of "Your Homoerotic Urges and You" under his arm, stared out the window, the tears running down his face. He reached over to put on the radio, but his hands were too muscular to turn the dial. He sunk back into his seat, defeated and forlorn.

His wife looked at him with pity growing in her heart. Yes, this was the man who convinced her to get breast implants right before the Sydney games, and resulting drag caused her to finish the fifty meter freestyle in a humiliating three minutes and twenty seconds. Yes, he was prone to sister fucking. And, yes, he broke his promise to her. He never did clean out the rain gutters that one time when he was busy with the babysitter, her mom, and the lesbian hitchhiker.

"We always talk about what's wrong with Thrash," she thought to herself. "We never think about what needs those lesbian babysitter hitchhikers have, or why his sister keeps fucking him. I never think about the subconscious reasons I allow an open marriage, why I attend his orgies, or why I enjoy having a Sherpa in my ass while I go down on my husband's enormous tool. What am I compensating for?"

"I don't know what to think. How am I ever going to read this book and confront my true feelings?"

"Maybe you don't have to."

"What?"

"Well, when you jerked off to me taking a triple cock blowout from three complete strangers, were you unhappy?"

"No."

"And when you convinced me to get breast implants right before the Olympics-"

"Look, I'm sorry about that."

"I know you are, honey. But you only did it because you thought it would help me get some ‘down under muff.' Do you remember telling me that before I left? You even told me that I'd have to lick clit counterclockwise in the southern hemisphere."

"Yeah, I remember."

"Deep down, I know that every time you yell ‘take it all, bitch,' even when you are saying it to a barely legal babysitter, you are really saying ‘I love you, Mrs. Maxim.'"

Thrash was thunderstruck. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying just this: WHO GIVES A FUCK? Who cares if you only want to see me get fucked by other men because it satisfies a homoerotic urge in your subconscious? I like getting fucked by three guys at once. Who cares what suppressed motivation I have for agreeing to do it? So what if you secretly fear that your enormous powerful meat rod isn't so enormous or powerful? You heard the other Dr. Phil. You can just compensate for it by buying more guns and bigger monster trucks!"

"You're right! It might just help the economy, too. The automakers and gun manufacturers have been under a lot of financial stress lately . . . ." Thrash noted, pondering.

"Damn straight," replied Mrs. Maxim.

"What should I do?"

"Let's go buy you another gun from Seoul Brother's Armory. While he's filling out the paperwork, you can casually invite Mr. Kim over for drinks and one thing will lead to another. If we go all night, my sister's flight will arrive and she'll be forced to take a cab to get to our house. When she gets out, she'll accidentally wander in on our orgy, and she might just join in because she can't help herself."

"Well . . ." Thrash hesitated, holding up the other Dr. Phil's book.

"Did I mention that she'll be turning 18 two minutes before her flight arrives?"

The book flew out the window, fluttering unread to a hard and unmourned landing on the dust swept asphalt behind the rapidly accelerating monster truck. Thrash switched positions with his lady, getting into the driver's seat and pulling out his thick member so she could project and satisfy her own subconscious desires on it. As her head disappeared into his lap, Thrash could just make out a lone figure on the highway a few miles ahead, near the women's prison.